Checkmate
by Gryphon31
Summary: S2 spoilers! The chess pieces are moving. Moriarty is in custody, and has information critical to Mycroft. How will Mycroft move? The game is afoot. Ch 7 Underpromotion is loaded.
1. 1: Pawn

Title: Checkmate

Summary: Before Moriarty danced with Sherlock, he had to play Mycroft. The chess pieces have been laid. Mycroft's unintentional first move was to put Moriarty in custody. Now it's Moriarty's move. The game is afoot.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

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><p>"Sir, we got him."<p>

"Moriarty?"

"Yes sir."

"Is he co-operating?"

"No sir."

"Not unexpected. You know what to do. This is a matter of both national security and great urgency."

"There is one other thing, sir. He claims he will only talk to you."

"You know I don't have time for this. Do what you need to. If he will talk to me, you will make him talk to you."

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><p>Moriarty internally smirked as the young man walked into the room. He was a pawn. Mycroft had given him a pawn to verse in a smaller match of a much bigger game. This was going to be fun.<p>

The young man's hands shook slightly as he seated himself at the table. Amateur.

"What am I doing here?" Moriarty asked, his voice uncharacteristically quivering.

"You have information pertaining to a matter of national security." As much as the young man's hands trembled, his voice stayed steady. Moriarty noted this as quickly as the words began. This man was a decent actor.

"I don't know what you are talking about… I was just minding my own business until I was arrested and dragged here. Who are you people? What do you want with me?" Moriarty swallowed hard, eyes beginning to water. Moriarty observed the young man's lip twitch upward slightly. Good. He was feeling in control.

"You have information."

"Information?" Tears started rolling down Moriarty's face. "What do you want? My bank accounts? License and registration? Code to my safe? Library card number?" Moriarty added a sob, "I just want to get home to my family." Moriarty hid his distaste as snot began to run down his face. He certainly was a mess right now. He reminded himself this act would be worth it in the end.

"You need to calm down. All we want to know is why so many known criminals have been offering you money."

"Known crim…" Moriarty's face became a mask of horror, "You think I am associating with criminals? What kind of person do you think I am? I'm a family man." Moriarty's head slouched forward, putting more weight on the cuffs pulling his arms behind his back. More tears rolled down his face as his previous tears turned to full out bawling.

The young man across the table began to look uncomfortable; even more uncomfortable than he did when he entered the room, "Sir," Moriarty internally grinned, he had been called sir. For this match, he had 'check' in four. "You have no idea what I'm talking about?" hesitant… uncertain… Moriarty would beat this child easily.

"No… no… NO! That's what I'm trying to tell you! Is it possible you have the wrong James Moriarty?"

"You mean like what, your identity was stolen?" The young man suggested.

"I… maybe," Moriarty paused, pretending to think back, "There were some strange phone calls that always ended with hanging up once they heard my voice, and…" he sniffed again, "well…. It's probably not important…" more tears leaked down his cheeks.

"Sir, if your identity has been stolen, and you are indeed not James Moriarty, then we need any details." Check in three.

"There were a couple of charges to make bank account that I didn't remember making, and neither did my girlfriend." Moriarty looked up hopefully into the eyes of the young man.

"Do you remember what those were? This is a matter of national importance." Too easy; check in two.

"Probably, I need to think clearly." Moriarty was hesitant, "Do you think I could possibly have a glass of water, if... if it's not too much trouble?"

The young man practically tripped over himself in his effort to get the water. Check in one.

Coming back in the room, he slid the glass over to Moriarty.

Moriarty leaned forward to try to grab with his lips. He struggled to reach. "Do you think you could hold it up to my face?" He asked his interviewer.

The interviewer walked behind his chair, unlocking one of his hands from the cuffs attached to the chair. Check. Moriarty's arm snapped around and over his shoulder, snagging the man's arm in his and pulling it down until he heard the snap. He did not like to get his hands dirty, but that did not mean he did not know how.

Moriarty began in a sing-song pattern; one his enemies learned to fear. "I said I want to speak with MYCROFT HOLMES!" He screamed the last words, clearly heard over the screams of pain from the man behind him.

Others came into the room. Moriarty's face was bashed with the back of a gun, and his hands were immobilized once again. He was left in the room alone, and the lights shut off, leaving him in darkness. It was Mycroft's move. The only question was whom he would have move his pieces next.

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><p>AN: Moriarty is viewing this as chess match. We know who wins in the end. I am going to attempt to connect the dots. R&R please.


	2. 2: Bishop

Rated T for violence and language.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

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><p>"It was a clean break, sir."<p>

"I shouldn't have sent him in there. He is inexperienced."

"What do you want to do with Moriarty, sir?"

"Send for Jones. He has done good work for me before."

"Jones was transferred, sir."

"Williams, tell Jones I am personally requesting him. He will come."

"Yes, sir."

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><p>Moriarty looked as though he was dozing in the dark. This was false; in fact, he was plotting. There were several moves Mycroft could make at this point, but he was fairly certain he knew which one would be made. First they would lower the temperature of the room, then they would start to turn the lights on and off suddenly and apparently randomly to mess with his system. Finally, they would likely send someone in soon.<p>

Mycroft was brilliant; Moriarty was certain of it, which was why he had been looking forward to this game. He, like everyone else on the planet, was predictable, however, and that made it more interesting. Even Moriarty recognized he himself was just as predictable as everyone else, but he left many less witnesses to view his patterns.

Because of this predictability, Moriarty had ranged down the moves that were likely to come next. Would Mycroft show force or maneuverability? Would a bishop or a knight be his next move?

Regardless, Moriarty realized he didn't have much time. While these thoughts were roaming his head, he had another pressing matter to deal with. He had not broken the pawn's arm just to break the pawn's arm. It had been a calculated move: one that had been successful. When re-cuffing Moriarty to the chair and handling their injured companion, the other pawns had overlooked one fact; the key that was used to unlock Moriarty's cuffs had fallen into his lap when he broke the guard's arm.

When Mycroft Holmes' next move became clear, regardless of who it was, they would see it when they entered the room, unless he got it under his leg without attracting attention to himself.

He worked in slow increments, twisting his legs and pushing himself up with his hands as he readjusted during his "nap."

The lights snapped on, and he"'woke" with a start, sliding the key the last little bit under his leg as two pawns entered the room. They lifted the table that was in front of Moriarty and dragged it out of the room.

"James Moriarty," the man stalked into the room, "we meet at last. I have to say, I thought you only existed in rumor."

Mycroft had sent in the bishop. This was good. It told Moriarty that Mycroft was not certain of the information he was searching for. Moriarty had laid a paper trail that said he had something, but the other end was only to be found by pure dumb luck. Moriarty liked those odds.

"Jones, yes? I heard you switched departments. Miss being here?" Moriarty asked.

"I have specialties that are useful in situations like this." Jones replied.

"Beating up people? A regular hero, you are. How's the family? Your kids doing fine? I believe your eldest just had her first child?"

Jones rolled up his sleeves. "My family doesn't concern us. What concerns us is information critical to national security."

Moriarty sighed, as if in exasperation. "Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. Go tell Mycroft I will only talk to him, and then go call your family and tell them you will be home for supper. This will be beneficial to both of us. I get to keep my face pretty, and you don't end up with blood on your trousers. It's a win-win," Moriarty smiled, "and I don't give that option often."

Jones' fist smashed in to the side of Moriarty's head. "I will take your deal and make a realistic one. You tell me what I want to know," Jones mimicked Moriarty's speech cadence, "and you get to keep your face much prettier than it will be otherwise."

Moriarty turned his face back to Jones. "Do yourself a favor- don't do impersonations."

Again, Jones' fist smashed into his face, followed by one in the stomach.

Moriarty stared into the camera. "Not going to do your own dirty work, Mycroft? All I want to do is chat." His musical voice came in at the end. The only reply was Jones fist. Moriarty stared into Jones' eyes. All there was left to do was wait for his check.

Oh, and outlast the other… inconvenience.

Hit.

Again,

And again,

And again.

A monotonous, tedious pattern that was dull enough to bore Moriarty.

After a particularly nice right hook, Jones paused, "All you need to do is answer our questions, then the pain will stop."

Moriarty turned and spat blood out of his mouth. "Pain? What pain? I must have dozed off there for a second; you were saying?"

A knock came on the door. Check.

"Tell Mycroft, if he wants to know what I have, and if it might possibly remain in my possession, he needs to give me three pieces of information. First, I want the name of his younger brother. Second, I want his brother's self-proclaimed job description, and third, I want the title of his web page."

To Jones, this request was confusing. A quick search would tell one all three pieces of information, all on the same page, even.

The door opened. "Jones, we have news."

Moriarty watched as Jones left the room. Hopefully someone was watching the camera and would repeat his requests to Mycroft. Jones would be in no state to do so.

Jones rushed back into the room, and fist met jaw with a loud _crack;_ A sound barely discernible over the wail of pain roaring from Jones, "You son of a bitch, you killed them. You killed all of them. My family! How could you do this? I will kill you. I will make you wish you were dead. You hear me?"

Other pawns were restraining the bishop. "Do you hear me?"

"I told you to call your family and go home for supper," Moriarty replied, "I had this feeling you would want to. You chose not to do it. From the moment you entered this building, their lives were in your hands. You killed them."

"NO! Let me…" Jones was in the hallway by now, "Kill him! Let me.." The door swung shut and the sound from behind the thick door was muffled, but discernible, "kill him! Moriarty, I swear I will kill you!"

"Hmph," Moriarty grinned, "take a number and get in line." He turned to face a camera. "You have the ability to stop this pain, Mycroft, but, then again, what do you care? You and I both know it's not an advantage. Unless, of course, you do care for something, in which case, your decision to not talk to me makes sense. I guess I won't know until we chat. I told you what I would tell you, if you affirm information you_ know_ I already know."

The lights flickered off, and still Moriarty smiled. The game was continuing precisely to plan.

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><p><em>AN:I love hating Moriarty. He's such a fun character to write. Thanks to my unofficial beta, CaringIsNotAnAdvantage, who helpfully edited this chapter._

_Finally, if you feel so inclined, feel free to Read and Review._


	3. 3: Knight

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

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><p>"What do you mean we can't tie anything to him, he killed 9 people… sir?"<p>

"Your agitation is understandable, Williams. Unfortunately, Jim Moriarty is incredibly intelligent, and nothing can be tied to him.

"Jones' parents died in an accident with a drunk driver, the two college sons were victims in a campus shooting, the eldest daughter, her husband, and their five month old died in some freak gas leak accident, his daughter was defiled and killed by a serial killer, and his health obsessed wife died of a heart attack. This can't all be coincidence."

"I know. We have people confessing to the crimes. The serial killer and drunk driver are in custody, the shooter killed himself, there is no sign of any drug in the wife's system, and authorities believe it was a authentic gas leak."

"But, sir, he said he did it."

"No, he said Jones did it. He admitted to nothing. We can't tie anything to him."

"He killed those people."

"It's time for a different approach. Send in Julia Weldin."

"A negotiator? Sir, with all due respect, all she is going to do is talk to him."

"He is expecting to be beaten and physically destroyed."

"How does that tie in Julia?"

"She can get anyone to talk. Williams? Also get any footage we have of Moriarty in that room. I wish to go through it again."

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><p>Moriarty spat out more blood. They always insisted on physical abuse. That was where he triumphed. Physical abuse was good to a point, but mostly just useful for causing a painful death. Emotional pain was so much more… enduring.<p>

Since Jones had left and the lights had turned out, Moriarty had begun to force the handcuff key back to his hands. It could prove beneficial to have soon.

Since the bishop had already come in, he expected that either his opponent would come in himself, or perhaps send in a knight. His rook would not be prepared to move yet.

The key slid into his hand. He fingered it. Ridged, pointy, it pricked his flesh as he palmed the key like a magician palms a coin.

The lights flicked on, and his next interrogator clicked into the room: heeled shoes.

"Julia, how nice to meet you." Moriarty smiled encouragingly at her, though he was certain he looked more like a shark.

"James, how are you? I did not know I had a reputation." Julia was tall, light hair, and moderately attractive. This was not where her power lay; her power lay in her ability to get under the skin of those she talked to. She called him James, making her a true knight. She would not be straight forward; she would bounce from topic to topic before weaving her way back to the issue at hand.

"If I thought you would honestly work with me, and not be a double agent, I would hire you myself. Your ability to get anyone to talk is legendary." Julia was not susceptible to flattery, but if Moriarty acted like he was trying, she would likely drop her guard, if only a smidgeon.

"You know, there is talk that entering this room is the end of life as it has been, as if you cause a curse. It's been said that one discussion with you results in unhappiness."

"Are you frightened?" Moriarty smirked.

Julia laughed, "Of you? Absolutely, but that doesn't give me license to leave this room." She glanced toward the door.

Moriarty's grin extended. She was letting him believe he had power, even though it was clear in her body language she believed no such thing. She sat up straight, her head tilted up so she was looking down at him. Unconsciously, her hands fingered her keys, showing that she was the only one who could let him out. She would only add to the belief that he was cursed. "My dear, I swear not to lay one finger on you without cause."

Her lips pressed together, suppressing a smile, "I suppose I would be more comforted if you didn't add the final clause."

"My words weren't meant to be comforting. They were the truth." They really were the truth. Comfort was unnecessary. It was lies wrapped in feel-good wrapping paper. Moriarty preferred his lies wrapped in life and resulting in death. "I won't kill you" was a favorite of his.

"The truth is such a wonderful feeling, is it not, James?" Julia replied.

"Always. Being able to stand up and admit something you did is always so freeing. People can finally give credit where credit is due." This was a lie. Moriarty didn't want credit from ordinary people. He wanted to play with the best; to look the most brilliant people in the eye as they were forced to admit defeat. The result of this yearning was this game with the Holmes brothers: a game they were still not aware of.

"I can only imagine the relief you would feel if you let go of the secret you are holding in."

"Which secret?" Moriarty asked.

"I think you know which one I want to know." Julia tossed her hair, crossing her legs from her seat in front of Moriarty.

"You caught me," Moriarty looked down, "it's been so hard to keep secret. Your record of making people talk will remain intact. I always prefer pants with hearts, and ducks, and other patterns over plain solid coloured ones."

Julia rolled her eyes. "That's not the secret I was looking for." She reached out and touched his face, "those have to hurt."

The bruises throbbed against her cold hand. "A bit." Moriarty exaggerated. He had forgotten about them.

"I'll be right back, I promise." If Moriarty had perfected a shark smile, Julia was mastering the viper. If only she could be persuaded to work for him. Blackmail was out of the picture. There was no blackmail on her.

"I look forward to it." Honesty; a trait not often observed by Moriarty. After she left, his fingers locked on the key in his hand. It would be his fastest way to Mycroft. The lock clicked as he slipped the key from one hand to the other. Julia entered the room, and Moriarty's hands stayed in place, as though he were still cuffed.

Julia pulled her chair closer to him, gently dabbing at his wounds with a soapy cloth. Check again.

"If I asked you to do something, would you do it?" Moriarty asked her.

"Hmm?" she asked, still focused on his injuries.

"I upheld your reputation of secret extraction. Forgive me while I uphold mine." One arm locked around her throat, twisting her to face the camera. The other held the pointed key against her throat.

"I grow bored of this game, Mycroft. You have ten seconds to enter this room before I kill her."

"I knew you would kill me without reason." Julia didn't even sound surprised.

"I told you, love, I would only kill you if I had cause."

"And you have cause?"

"I am exasperated," Moriarty replied, "that is reason enough. Five seconds Mycroft."

"Three." Moriarty pushed the key against her neck.

"Two." He gently kissed her throat. He felt nothing for her, it only added to his theatrical performance.

"One."

"Stop." The door slammed open and Mycroft stood in the doorway, "I am here. If you harm her, I will not return."

Moriarty released Julia, and dropped the key, holding his hands above his head. "It's nice to finally see you in person, Mycroft Holmes."

"I cannot return that greeting, James Moriarty."

Guards entered the room, picking the key off the floor and preparing to handcuff Moriarty again.

"No," Mycroft commanded, "he can stay free for the time being."

"Thank you." Moriarty replied.

"I expect you will repay this favor in information." Mycroft replied, seating himself in front of Moriarty, "What was it you wished to discuss?"

Moriarty's face stayed blank. Where to begin?

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><p>AN: My beta pointed out to me that Moriarty's first name is, in fact, James, not Jim, so that changed in the first couple chapters. I believe this will overall be around 12 chapters, so whatever you think might possibly happen in the next one may or may not happen. Review if you feel so inclined.


	4. 4: Zugzwang

4:Zugzwang

Zugzwang- When a player is put at a disadvantage by having to make a move. (Wikipedia's Glossary of Chess)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I also am not an avid chess player, preferring Manila, Mancala, and checkers. If there is an issue with my chess, feel free to let me know, but understand my chess knowledge is basic and partially(majorly) based on Wikipedia.

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><p>"Sir, he's going to kill Julia."<p>

"If I go, I will be playing right into his hands."

"But Julia!"

"Hand me your mustard."

"… five seconds…"

"Sir?"

"The mustard, Williams. That's an order."

"Three."

"Is there any other way to save her? There is a rumor that he is cursed."

"Gossip is exaggerated. I will not allow him to spill more blood today."

"Two."

"What will you tell him?"

"Only what he already knows."

"One."

"Good luck, sir."

"Stop…"

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><p>Moriarty observed Mycroft as he sat down, his eyes never leaving Moriarty. Both of them displayed no expression, each watching the other for the smallest action, studying the other for some factor overlooked, some new angle that might reveal a weakness. Pointless. There would be nothing observable yet that the other didn't want seen.<p>

In spite of himself, Moriarty did try to stay blank. All-in-all it didn't really matter. Mycroft would see any miniscule movements over which he had limited control, and vice versa. He might as well wear his expressions on his sleeves. They would be no less visible that way.

"Something funny? Are you just going to waste my time? I do have more important business to attend to."

"No you don't. You advertise your primary concern as the protection of government officials and national security," Moriarty added with a smile, "but you and I both know this is not entirely true."

"Isn't it?" Mycroft answered, raising his eyebrows in mock confusion.

Moriarty inwardly sighed. Mycroft still underestimated him. "You answered a question with a question, deliberately to see if I would pick up on the idea that you are mocking me. You have mustard dripped on your clothes, as though to make me second guess your capability, and in turn, second guess your intelligence, however you made two subtle mistakes. First, the drop is too perfect to be from anything but a bottle. Secondly, you do not like mustard, or foods on which it is commonly served. You know I would know this which results in the conclusion that you are indeed testing my skills in not only observation, but deduction as well." Moriarty finished, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Mycroft should not underestimate him. Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly before his blank mask returned. This could only mean one thing; Moriarty was right. Of course he was.

"I believe you indicated earlier you would tell me what information you had." Mycroft replied.

Moriarty sighed in exasperation, speaking as one would to a small child. "No sir, I told you that if you told me the name of your brother, his self-proclaimed profession, and the name of his webpage, I would tell you what sort of information I have, and whether or not you were on a timeline."

"You already know this, James," Mycroft refused to lower himself to Moriarty's level of name calling, "so you might as well tell me what you will."

Moriarty's face returned to neutral. "I want to hear _you_ say it." If he could get Mycroft to give him this smidgeon of information, it would make the next step that much easier. Once Mycroft exchanged any information with him, he would be, subconsciously, more willing. Even as smart as he was, he would, especially if the act was backed up by a reward of getting some of what he wanted.

"You're being ridiculous." Mycroft scoffed.

"Am I?" Moriarty replied.

"Why do you care about Sherlock, anyhow?"

"Technology," Moriarty answered, "I hold technology of a devious nature."

"What sort of devious nature?"

"Now, the answer to that question would require information of a specific nature. For now, let's just discuss your dear brother's occupation and web page." Moriarty countered.

"I tell you his occupation, and you tell me…" Mycroft left the question open.

"You tell me his occupation and web page, and I happily tell you what sort of timeline you are looking at."

Mycroft pursed his lips. He was not happy with this turn of events, but as long as Moriarty held the technology, and he held Moriarty, the information could not be used. If Moriarty was selling it elsewhere and it changed hands, it could prove difficult to track down, especially if they were uncertain what to look for.

"Mycroft, you said it yourself, I already know the answers to these questions. Why not take advantage of this fact and tell me so I can give you more information?" Moriarty encouraged, seeing the barely visible debate taking place in Mycroft's head.

"Sherlock is a consulting detective." Mycroft swallowed. Could he really do this? Sherlock was his brother, and the mere fact that this specific criminal was asking questions about him made the older brother nervous.

Moriarty said nothing. Anything he said at this point would be a distraction from Mycroft weighing his two separate desires: protecting the country and protecting Sherlock.

"His web page is…" Mycroft forced himself to maintain eye contact with Moriarty despite the disgust he felt with himself, "The Science of Deduction."

"You had 72 hours from the sunrise after Jones entered this building to get to where I know the information is. Judging from the passage of time, I would guess you have about 70 hours left."

Mycroft stood, turning to leave.

"What else would you like to know? Where it is? How it will leave my possession? What it is? So many questions need answering, Mycroft. Give me details about Sherlock that I can't find online, and I will answer your questions." Moriarty offered.

"You are right. You will answer them. My people are skilled with using details and finding the right… leverage." Mycroft headed towards the door.

"It won't end here, Mycroft. You will be back in this room giving me more information. It's inevitable. I know what your next moves will be. There will be no surprises." Moriarty called after the figure exiting the room.

The door swung shut. Moriarty was, again, correct. As long as Mycroft held the reigns, James Moriarty would likely be able to anticipate his next move.

Guards came in and rebound Moriarty. Even bound, Moriarty had no fear. Mycroft would be back soon enough. There was no other way for him to get information. Moriarty was already working to anticipate his next move. Would he send in another bishop, or maybe a knight? Would he send in his favorite rook, Williams? So many possible combinations to choose from, but all ended the same way; both receiving the information they most desired.

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><p><em>AN: As I noted at the top, I am not overly familier with chess. I have played it before, but understand I am using the terms as the definition appears to apply. Mycroft and Moriarty had a conversation. You are welcome to tell me what you think of it by hitting the button that says review slightly below this line of text._


	5. 5: Castle

Ch 5: Castle

Castling- A special move involving both the king and one rook. Its purpose is generally to protect the king and develop the rook (Wikipedia's Glossary of Chess)

Bind- A strong grip or stranglehold on a position that is difficult for the opponent to break

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. See previous disclaimer for chess knowledge.

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><p>Mycroft sat in his office, thinking, only thinking. Moriarty knew him; could read him like a Shakespearian tragedy. What to do?<p>

"Sir?" Williams approached his desk.

"Yes Williams?"

"What now? Who do we send in, sir?" The officer stood at attention, waiting for orders.

Mycroft closed his eyes. There had to be something. There was some detail in his subconscious striving to get out, some miniscule mistake that could work to his advantage. No one was perfect. Moriarty extorted his weakness of a dual loyalty; he needed to figure out Moriarty's weakness.

"If this were a normal situation, I'd call in a favor from someone who doesn't think along the same lines of anyone I've sent in so far. I would tell them to extract what we need quickly and efficiently because of the timeline." Mycroft mused.

"Sir, we know the timeline. What does it matter how close we cut it?" Williams questioned.

"I don't want any room for error." Mycroft replied. He sighed in frustration. Something was bothering his subconscious. He had an answer, he knew he did. He just needed to find it.

"If I were you, I would just keep working him. Every man has a breaking point, sir. It's only a matter of time" Williams helpfully pointed out.

"Time we don't have." Mycroft countered, his irritation with himself growing.

"We still need to send someone in, someone who can't get hurt. We've had too many casualties in this case, sir." Williams shifted anxiously. Mycroft knew the one thing that was on his mind; he, too, had a family. He did not want his wife or his two young kids to get hurt from this job.

"I agree," Mycroft abruptly pushed himself back, his typical control temporarily gone as he pounded his fists on the desk, "I don't know how to avoid them; who to send that he won't break with a conversation and friends on the outside. There has to be a way. What is it?" he asked himself.

"Sir," Williams swallowed nervously, "there was something that I found odd."

"Yes?" Mycroft asked, not really paying much attention, forcing himself back into the confines of his self-control; a device he did not usually find to be as limiting as it felt right now.

"The timeline he gave. He appeared to know that Jones was going to be called in; that he would be the one you turned to." Williams opened his mouth to keep talking, but quickly closed it.

"Go on?" Mycroft encouraged; his curiosity peaked by the pause.

Williams spoke tentatively. "He also knew that Julia would come in, or knew of her, enough to address her by name before she had completely entered the room." That was the end of Williams speach. There was no lead after all.

"He likely memorized the data base of employees, Williams, nothing else. He made educated guesses. I doubt there is an employee in the building he doesn't know." Mycroft leaned forward onto his elbows.

"I… I beg to differ, sir." Williams stuttered, going on to justify his rationale, "I watched the footage of the interrogations again. He calls everyone by name, everyone except Roberts, the one whose arm is broken."

Mycroft replayed the events in his mind's eye. Yes. He was right! What did this mean? How did this affect the outcome? It meant that Moriarty was so confident in his ability to predict Mycroft's every move that he had prepared for every contingency that he could come up with. This meant he knew who Mycroft favored, who he would turn to for an urgent job. He knew the people Mycroft would know.

"We cannot use my contacts any longer." Mycroft realized.

"Why not, sir?" Williams replied, not connecting the dots.

"He knows who I would call in. We need to stay in our building from now on; new recruits, people Moriarty would overlook because I would overlook them on a case like this." Mycroft paused. Something still didn't ring true. Moriarty could still adapt, like he had done on the first day. Mycroft had patterns. Even such variables as deciding when to pull people out of interrogation had consequences and could be predicted.

"I cannot be a part of this." Mycroft determined.

"Sir?" Williams inquired.

"As long as I hold the reins on this operation, Moriarty knows what to expect. I will supervise, but you need to lead this investigation, Williams." Mycroft stared at his desk, not seeing the desk, but focusing on checking that the logic made sense.

"You can't be serious," Williams scoffed. Mycroft made eye contact, raising an eyebrow. Williams looked down, shuffling his feet slightly, "…sir." He cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed by his outburst.

"Quite serious," Mycroft moved on, "You are not me. You think differently. Moriarty has studied every intimate detail of my life. I cannot beat him while he keeps me in a bind, forced to follow his lead. To beat him, I need to do something I wouldn't do. What would I not do? I will allow people to die for the safety of this country. I have done so before, and he knows that I will again when given no alternative. I have no qualms with using questionable methods to extract information. Moriarty knows this. There is only one thing I have never done, nor did I ever wish to do. I have always had full control, directing the most dangerous operations myself, as I have never wished to hand off that responsibility. To beat Moriarty I need to not be leading this investigation." Mycroft waited until Williams looked back at him, making sure his point was driven in. "From this point forward, you have total operational control, Williams. Keep me informed on all developments."

"Are you sure, sir?" Williams asked again, still apparently in shock at this change in events.

"Positive." Williams inclined his head and left the office.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his hands massaging his temples. This was the proper response after all, was it not? Sherlock would be in less danger, at least, no more than usual, and the country would not be threatened. Mycroft fought the personal guilt. He didn't have a choice other than letting Julia die. It was not as though the information was confidential. He had given Moriarty only information that Sherlock himself would give to anyone who asked. It would not matter in the end. Moriarty would stay in his custody, pushed into some dark hole until he died, preferably sooner than later.

Every choice made logical sense. The results would be in Mycroft's favour as always, yet, why did he have this feeling that all this was going to plummet out of control in the end?

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><p><em>AN: Thanks to those of you who take the time to reveiw. It's encouraging to get feedback (positive or negative). I decided to take this in a slightly different direction than people might guess. The next question I am looking to answer is whether or not Moriarty is prepared for this contigency. Please reveiw if you are so inclined._


	6. 6: Clearance

Ch 6: Clearance

Clearance- Removal of pieces from a rank, file or diagonal so that a bishop, rook or queen is free to move along it. (Wikipedia, Glossary of Chess)

Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock.

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><p>"I would like to offer a bonus to the men who can get information out of Moriarty, sir. I believe a monetary award would be beneficial to overpass hearsay of curses."<p>

"Do as you must."

"Yes, sir."

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><p>Moriarty was dozing, as was typical of him when the lights were off.<p>

He had no key, but he had directly spoken to Mycroft which was an important step in the right direction. There were several different people Mycroft might send in at this point. He would likely go to either an old accomplice, risky after what happened to Jones, or his recently promoted Williams, a promising young fellow who was doomed to end up in a dead end job because of his desire to abide by rules set by the government.

It was rather ridiculous. In terms of hiring, all the reliable ones seemed to want to go into government; many of Moriarty's own employees were only reliable because of what would happen to them if they tried to leave. Moriarty frowned. The mess he was going to need to clean up after word got out he had been captured was likely to be a bear. People made too many mistakes when they were worried their identities might be given away. Fools.

If his timing was correct, and it most certainly was, Moriarty was willing to bet he had been in the clutches of the government for roughly 16 hours. All this time had passed, and still Mycroft didn't understand what he needed to do; hence Moriarty giving him much more time than was necessary. Moriarty focused on the topic at hand. This was a critical moment. Mycroft's plan of action was at the tipping point that would decide the next few days.

Another factor was quickly starting to agitate Moriarty. Studies have been done on the effects of sleep deprivation. He had been awake so far for around 17 hours. After 50 hours of sleep deprivation normal people maintain normal functions; heartbeat, breathing, digestive systems, but their thinking skills have been extensively to popular belief, Moriarty was human, though he certainly was not average. He did not hold to the fact that he would remain unaffected, and resolved to get some sleep while he next could. He had planned for this entire event. As long as he held himself together and got cat naps when he could, he should be fine.

The door burst open and three guards entered. Moriarty studied them briefly. Pawns, all of them. He hid a frown and steeled himself. He had expected to recognize someone entering the room. This was, of course, a manageable situation. It was possible that Mycroft had handed his case off to someone else, or at the very least, trying to keep him off balance. The next 48 hours would not be pleasant if that were the case.

Behind him, he heard his cuffs unlock and he was hauled up, toes barely touching the floor before he was dragged across the room, arms held outstretched in a t position.

Twirling his baton, the third guard smiled sinisterly, and Moriarty had time to wonder how committed he was to serving the government before the air was forced from his lungs. From his vantage point of not legitimately touching the ground, Moriarty's shoulders and arms bore the weight of the hit as his legs flew partially behind him and his chest felt as though it was going to bruise. Using his momentum, he swung his legs up against his chest so his shins took the brunt of the next hit. He noted and filed the pain away as his shins took yet another hit from the baton. The pawn prepared for his next hit, and Moriarty lowered his legs, timing the next hit so that his knees snapped back up to his chest, capturing the baton. His nerves continued to send messages of pain, but he didn't have time for them. The guard released the baton, and the back of his fist connected with Moriarty's already sore jaw.

Moriarty was dropped on the floor, the baton scooped out from underneath him. He barely had time to push himself up before his arms were whisked out from beneath his body and tugged painfully behind his back. "Do I get to walk myself, or would you prefer to drag me?" Moriarty rolled his eyes, not expecting a response. What he got instead was the sound of his right shoulder being dislocated. He inhaled sharply, before doing his best to ignore the pain. It was only nerve cells sending up electrical signals interpreted by his brain to be pain; nothing to be concerned about. The signals originating in his shoulder rushed to his brain with every meter of ground covered as he was dragged from the room. Obviously, the pawns were not going to allow him to walk.

The surroundings changed from the neutral colored walls to a shiny, newer setting. More pawns were in this room, Moriarty could hear the increase in voices.

"Will he talk?"

"Not yet."

"Is it ready?" This was the same voice that had beaten him with a baton.

"Yes, sir."

"Would it be too much to ask for you to use nouns?" Moriarty's voice was laden with sarcasm. He couldn't pull himself upright to see his soon to be tormenters, and he did have a reputation to maintain.

"Set him down." Moriarty was forcibly flipped over by his restrained arms. His face turned past the way he had come in, and the door had already been sealed. This room was soundproof: unnecessary, but none the less reinforcing the idea that this was not going to be a pleasant time.

"Wait." The pawn added, and closed the gap between Moriarty and himself.

Moriarty forced himself to keep his eyes open and maintained his breathing as he waited for the inevitable- _crack!_- the signals were messages only. Only messages. If he did not interpret them, they would not be there.

At some unseen signal he was dropped. He hit the floor on his face and much to his chagrin was powerless to try to sit up. Nothing was broken; that he knew, but two dislocated shoulders meant he could not rely on his arms. Whoever this man was, he should consider a shift in employment to Moriarty's work place. There were plenty of openings, flexible hours, and less restrictions; he was a bishop in a pawns body.

He was lifted up and set down on a table where a plethora of straps were against his back. Moriarty gritted his teeth as they began to cut the last few pieces of his suit off him, the pants and any undergarments, being none to gentle with the scissors. "This suit is worth more than you will make in your life time." He hissed, enunciating clearly to reveal no indication of pain. They had already taken his shirt, tie and jacket, leaving him in his plain white t-shirt, but now they took that as well.

A hand patted- bashed- his shoulder. "Don't worry _sweetheart_, it will be safe in my hands; it always is." The bishop leered down at him.

"So you make it a habit of stripping young, attractive men down?" Moriarty asked, much more spunk in his voice than many would expect.

"If I did, you would still be an exception," Bishop patted Moriarty's face before sliding his hands suggestively down to Moriarty's stomach before fastening him by the straps underneath his back to a sturdy metal pole hanging down vertically from the ceiling, roughly in the middle of his chest.

"Raise it up!" Bishop commanded, and any feeling of what he assumed to be a Plexiglas table was gone, leaving nothing but air underneath him. He was dangling like a toy in a caught in the claw of a machine.

Moriarty was surprised to find himself amused by this situation. "So this is what it feels like to be normal; to be a piece with no control other than to respond to how you find yourself situation. What painfully predictable lives you all must lead."

Bishop was back next to his face again. "Painful for you, alright. Do me a favor. Go ahead and scream to your heart's content."

Moriarty dramatically sighed, "Pointless. It's a much better use of my time to plot your demise." After another uncomfortable twist of his arm, Moriarty was moving again.

In this moment, he was not wondering what was going to happen to him; he had been on the management level of information extraction himself, and knew that whatever was coming would be boring. He was also not agonizing about his nudity. Granted, the destruction of his suit was more painful than anything that had happened to him yet, but still a small price to pay for what he was going to gain. He had no doubt Mycroft would give in and come to him before he felt chatty.

Moriarty was, in fact, thinking of the elder Holmes. Mycroft ran his own empire with an iron fist similar to Moriarty's. Instead of _only_ bodies lying in his wake, Mycroft had mounds of diverted disasters, paperwork, and in the case of a disgruntled employee, the occasional notification of being sacked. The people on Mycroft's team, such as this Bishop, were just as 'evil' as Moriarty's, if one saw in only black and white, ignoring the spectrum of colors, and also the other wavelengths. All were human, capable of the same actions. He and Mycroft were very similar, but Moriarty had one step up. He was not weak.

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><p><em>AN: Thank you to CaringIsNotAnAdvantage who as of yet has seemed willing to put up with receiving a multitude of repeats of chapters. This was a longer wait, however it is likely that this time gap may remain constant. I apologize if you find this frustrating, but I want to give my best, and my best takes time. The next chapter should hopefully be loaded in the next three days, but the chapters after that will be a more challenging part of this work for me. Reviews are always encouraging, either concrit or otherwise, and if you feel so inclined to leave one, I thank you in advance._


	7. 7: Underpromotion

Ch 7: Underpromotion

Underpromotion- "Advancing a pawn to the eighth rank, converting it to a… bishop." (Wikipedia, Glossary of Chess)

**Warning: Violent. Moriarty is put through physical abuse.**

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

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><p>"Three of them took me up on the offer. I let Wallace have the first go, sir."<p>

"You are aware there are some who worry he is a liability."

"Yes, sir. He is being monitored. That's precisely why I gave him Moriarty."

"Thank you for the update. You are dismissed."

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><p>In the vulnerable state he was in, Moriarty could not completely block out his surroundings. Once the claw stopped air-lifting his horizontal body across the room, he could feel a spray on his back. Water?<p>

He was startled as the claw dropped down. He took a deep breath and held it as he was plunged into freezing water, completely submerged. The metal pole stopped his body from bobbing back to the surface. He looked about. He was lying in a glass box. Water came rushing up from his feet to exit above his head. The water had a strong current, digging the loose straps into his lower body and pulling them away from his upper body.

They were loose enough that given the right amount of time, he could likely get himself free. Was the individual in charge of this so lacking in intelligence that he believed Moriarty to be no challenge? That he would just sit back and take this? Give credit when credit is due, Moriarty scoffed.

The pressure on his lungs was now distracting. This was a good indication of time passage. They would lift him out soon, ask him a couple questions, attempt to make him feel more uncomfortable, and drop him back into the water when his answers were not forthcoming.

Boring.

The claw raised him up out of the water, and Moriarty forced the breath to be taken in calmly. They would not just drop him back in unless they were certain he was conscious. Mycroft would have a temper tantrum, or what passed as one for such a highly controlled individual, if he died. Moriarty did not hold back his giggle.

"You think this situation is funny?" Bishop asked.

"Why do you think this has anything to do with you?" Moriarty asked. He took a deep breath as he was plunged again. They would keep him down longer this time. He forcibly prevented his limbs from reacting. He did not want permanent damage, and for now, struggling would do nothing. If the opportunity arose, he would be free, and then they would pay. They would wish they had begged Mycroft to give in to Moriarty's demands, rather than leaving him in a locked room with many toys and no way for anyone to hear them scream.

The pressure on his lungs came sooner this time. One of his feet jerked as he momentarily lost the battle of relaxation. He was pulled out of the water, and he inhaled much quicker the second time around.

"You have technology. We want it."

"I'm afraid you will need to be more specific. Mycroft ought to be able to describe what you are looking for clearly enough." Moriarty replied.

"Mr. Holmes will not be engaging in any business with you."

"Pity. There is so much he could gain." Inhale. Drop. Repeat.

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><p>The water was peaceful. He could see murky shapes above him watching as he lay in the embrace of the water. He continued to refuse to struggle. His eyesight narrowed, focusing in on one spot on the ceiling, a shifting spot that became clear as he was pulled out again.<p>

Moriarty gasped like a fish out of water. Pathetic. Eight times in, and already he was reduced to this.

"You can…"

"Let me guess," Moriarty interrupted, his voice dancing. "I alone have the power to make this stop and I only need to do one little thing for you; tell you about the technology."

"You are correct."

Moriarty smiled coldly at his tormentor. "You are a fool to think you can break me."

Down again.

There was however, one difference. For the first time there was Moriarty missed his inhale.

The water whirled around him. What before had been an embrace now battered into his lungs, pushed into his nostrils, filled his mouth and drained into his lungs as he attempted to inhale. Sharp pain filled him and he forced away panic. So this was what it felt like to drown. He had killed many people this way, and now he knew part of what they felt before they died. The primitive part of him mind throttled and lashed about, but he was in control. His body made no movement. He opened his eyes to watch as the tiny spot of light still visible completely vanished.

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><p>He woke up to hands compressing his abdomen as he did a combination of puking and coughing, getting what felt like a large portion of a pond out of his stomach and lungs. It did explain the loose straps, however; nothing had needed to be undone for hands of life to stop him from drowning. He was back where he had started this session; on the glass table near the water. Bishop was handed a cloth and he dried his hands as Moriarty finished expelling the extra water from his system.<p>

"This doesn't need to be painful," he smiled coldly down at Moriarty, "in fact, I am willing to reward you for anything you tell us."

Moriarty's face changed into that of a fearful child. "The pain would stop? What kind of reward?"

"Name your price."

"Your body on a silver platter with a nice sharp blade next to it." Moriarty's dark tone turned light again, "It would be fun."

"I see we are alike. We both enjoy pain."

Moriarty scoffed. "I have no desire for pain, only power. It is, however, fascinating how closely these two concepts align."

He was picked up again but did not stop his speech, "After all, they are both figments in our mind. Pain is merely an electrical impulse interpreted by one's mind. Power is loosely interpreted by the ability to cause pain."

No response. Moriarty sighed. Could he find no one to have a decent philosophical conversation with him? He inhaled as the claw came to a halt.

Sharp drop.

Cold water.

Hadn't they been through this already?

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><p>Well after the twentieth submersion, Moriarty again woke up on the cold table. More coughing. More puking. His throat and esophagus would likely not forgive him for this for a decent length of time.<p>

There were no more thoughts of escape, simply endurance. Even if he were to get out, he was disoriented enough that quickly disarming any opposition would be more of a risk than he wanted to take. He rolled his eyes as Bishop entered his viewing area again.

"Don't you have any imagination?"

"Any suggestions?" Bishop asked.

"Hydrochloric acid instead of water? Changing between freezing and boiling temperatures? Is it too much to ask for a little creativity?" Moriarty knew it was impossible that any of these changes could quickly take place, so he saw no reason not to offer them.

"Found much luck with those, have you?"

"Well," Moriarty puzzled, "No, but you see, I've never needed to use them. I've never had to interrogate myself before. I can only imagine how difficult that would be. Usually those I interrogate myself crack under pressure in two hours or less. This has to be getting much past that point by now. If asked to give a rough estimate I would say it's been triple that."

"No one asked you. If you are in a sharing mood, you could tell me about technology."

"I see no reason." Moriarty responded.

He was raised up. He traveled the familiar path to above the dunk tank. He inhaled sharply, waiting for the drop. Two clenched fists beat down upon his chest and the air was forced out of his lungs. Then the plunge came.

With even less oxygen in his lungs, more messages flooded up from him chest, begging his brain to allow him to breathe, not connecting that there was no oxygen. Creativity had taken place.

Moriarty relished this new pain. This new cycle provided relief from the boredom of the old one. Moriarty was lifted up, asked the same questions, made a different snarky comment, was pummeled in the chest and dropped back down into the water.

He woke up on the table four more times, each time gathering confidence. They would not let him die.

He was offered blankets, heaters, a hot beverage and many other appealing treatments, but still he would not speak of the technology.

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><p>He was dropped again, but this time, after the world went dark, it got very bright as well, brighter than the room he was in. He gasped as he woke up, and felt the heat of twin paddles placed deliberately over his chest.<p>

He had died.

They had let him die.

Moriarty kept his face blank, but the rest of his body language told the whole story. His chest was heaving more so than the violent expulsion of water from his lungs could account for. The rest of his body was shaking. He had been so sure they would not kill him. It was risky; he might not come back.

There was no banter, no offerings, no questions this time, only Bishop's cold voice. "Again."

"Sir, we may not always be able to revive him." Listen to him, Moriarty mentally argued.

"Again!"

The claw lifted Moriarty, dropped him back into the water. The shaking of his limbs became thrashing on their own accord. He wanted out of this hole. He did not want the light to come back, did not want to face death again. When he went to his death, it would be himself who decided it; no one but him would get to make that decision. He fought the cords, blind panic over coming him at the thought of having that decision taken from him

Darkness, flash of white, paddles on his chest.

Moriarty's chest heaved as the panic that had over taken him in the tank strove to surface again.

"Shh, sweetheart. I know you're scared. Tell me what I want to know, and I can make the pain stop." Bishop stroked his damp face. That, more than anything, is what gave control back to Moriarty. How dare he lose control in front of this man.

Moriarty bit down on his tongue. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and starting from his hands he worked his way around his body, calming the trembling limbs until the shaking stopped. He was in control. He needed only remind himself who was in charge. How was it said? The spirit is willing, but the body is weak. He needed to retain that control. His mind was in control.

"I will tell you nothing." He spoke calmly, not even a tremor in his tone, an accomplishment he recognized.

"Again."

In, out, in, out. He did not die again, nor did he allow his mind to lose its grip on his flesh.

* * *

><p>He was pulled out once more, but instead of going back in, he hung suspended for longer than was anticipated.<p>

"Your time is up. He is mine now." Female, commanding. His first rook? The only rook he expected was Williams, and this was not him. No one else close to Mycroft had much experience in information extraction. Mycroft liked to keep his dirty laundry sorted by type in a neat hierarchy.

"Whatever. He was getting boring anyways." Liar.

"Put him back together and take him to the next room."

Moriarty spoke, his voice hoarse from his abused throat. "So sorry, s_weetheart._ It appears your time is up."

He held in a gasp as one arm was relocated. "We still have some time left."

"I want no further injuries on my patient." The commanding voice was back.

Bishop muttered something sounding like "ruin my fun" under his breath as he walked around Moriarty, preparing to reset the other arm.

"Better luck next time." Moriarty replied. After the arm snapped in place, Moriarty managed to grab the hand of the Bishop and break a few fingers before he forced to let go. It sent a large number of pain signals up his arm, but he did have a reputation to maintain.

Moriarty chuckled, enjoyed the screaming as a couple of the pawns quickly restrained him in a modified wheel chair before taking him to a different room. Moriarty felt no urge to fight. For now, all he had to do was remain calm. Mycroft would come to him before the end.

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><p><em>AN: As is usual, thank you, CaringIsNotAnAdvantage, for putting up with receiving like three different versions of how this was going to go down, before finally settling on one and helping me work out the glitches. Thank you, me .fergie, for the recommendation. _

_I love to hate how much I love Moriarty, and this level of abuse will be maintained over the next few chapters, just as a warning._

_The next chapter may be longer in coming, but until then, you are welcome to tell me how I am doing by hitting the lovely review button featured at the bottom of your screen. _


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